


Push

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Romance, Series: Attractive, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-05
Updated: 2000-03-05
Packaged: 2018-11-11 02:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Ray invites Fraser over to watch a hockey game and very little television gets watched. This is a sequel to 'Snoop' and 'Yes.' (BTW, since it's becoming clear that this is a series I've given it a name.)This story is a sequel to"Yes".





	Push

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

(Push)

 

 

This is a sequel to "Snoop" and "Yes." As with  
"Yes" I am putting a warning on this story for the more sensitive  
souls among us. Some people might consider this to be mildly "kinky."  
I don't.  
  
Disclaimers: As much as I wish otherwise, Benton Fraser & Ray Kowalski  
belong to Alliance. *sigh*  
Rated NC17  
for boys with boys and boys with toys, and some unsafe sex practices.  
  
PS: HUGE chick-like hugs, hearts and flowers to Audra and Betty for  
wonderful beta and assistance on this. *airkisses*  
  


* * *

  
****

  
Push  
© 2000, Kellie Matthews  


  
        Ray puts his head down  
on his desk, stifles a little moan, thanking heaven that Fraser's gone  
off to the lunchroom for a minute. Ray needs the time to try and get  
himself together. It's his punishment, Ray knows it. He's being punished  
for what he does, for . . . using . . . Fraser, that way. He's doomed  
to spend the rest of his life, or this assignment, whichever comes first,  
with a man who torments him in complete and total innocence. He's there,  
so close, too close, all the time, in his space. For God's sake, he's  
starting to know what Fraser smells like.  
        And  
thinking that, his brain conjures the scent. Warm, and clean and woolly  
and just a little sweaty because that uniform is sometimes too hot, and  
a little hint of leather, and something like autumn. How someone can  
smell like autumn he doesn't know, but Fraser does. Makes him think  
of piles of leaves, and bonfires, and a chill in the air that makes you  
long for a warm body next to you in bed. Okay, so he wants that no matter  
what. One specific warm body. One . . . oh, God. Fraser's back, he  
wasn't gone nearly long enough.  
        "Here  
you are, Ray, your coffee."  
        He  
leans over Ray's shoulder, so close Ray can feel the warmth of his body  
through his shirt, puts a cup down beside his hand. Fingers brush his  
as Fraser withdraws, some part of him, thigh, hip maybe, brushes Ray's  
shoulder, then he's moved back, a little, not enough. Ray swallows twice,  
hard. Runs his hand through his hair to get rid of the lingering sensation  
of Fraser's skin against his. "Thanks, Frase." He picks up  
the cup, sips, looks up, startled, to see a warm gleam of satisfaction  
in Fraser's smoke-blue gaze.  
        "Six  
Smarties, right, Ray?" Fraser asks, sounding pleased with himself.  
        "Yeah, yeah,  
that's right, that's. . . good. Thanks." Jesus. Fraser put Smarties  
in his coffee. Nobody ever did that for him. Not even Stella, and she  
was, had been, his wife. She'd hated that. Tried to make him stop.  
Fraser did it for him. Oh yeah. Fraser did it for him in so many ways.  
Ways that were getting increasingly difficult to hide.  
        "I  
see you've found the file," Fraser says, leaning in again, one hand  
on the desk, close, pointing. "There's the notation we were looking  
for."  
        A touch  
on his thigh startles Ray, he pushes back in his chair with a little  
yelp, spilling hot coffee all over his hand and his desk before he realizes  
it's Dief. Fraser manages to pull the file out of the way so it doesn't  
get splashed.  
        "Jesus!  
Sneaky wolf," he mutters, pulling up a corner of his shirt to wipe  
his hand, but before he can, Fraser's got his hand, and a big white handkerchief,  
and he's mopping coffee off reddened skin, tsking and shaking his head.  
        "Really, Diefenbaker,  
you might be more considerate, see what you've done?"  
        "It's  
okay, Frase," Ray says, trying to tug his hand free.  
        Fraser's  
grip is firm on his wrist, lifting his hand toward the light, examining  
it critically. "Not too bad, but this will help," without  
releasing Ray, he uses his other hand to flip open his cartridge case  
and remove a small tin, which he manages, somehow, to open one-handed.  
"Hold this," he says.  
        Ray,  
who, knowing it's useless to protest, does. Fraser dips a finger into  
the pale contents, then smooths it over the scald. Cool. Tingly. Smells  
kind of . . . nice, for once. "What's that?"  
        "Comfrey  
and aloe salve, with a touch of wintergreen oil."  
        "Oh.  
Feels good."  
        "I'm  
glad, Ray," Fraser says, finally letting go of his hand, which tingles  
in more places than Fraser put salve. "I like to make you feel  
good."  
        Fuck.  
Ray doubletakes. Fraser gazes back at him candidly, not a hint of mischief  
in his steady eyes. "Umm, yeah. Thanks," he manages. "I,  
um, better get something to clean up the desk."  
        Fraser  
nods, steps back so Ray can push his chair back enough to stand. Ray  
heads for the bathroom, trying to walk normally, glad he's never been  
one for tight jeans. Thank God there's no one else in the can. He ducks  
into a stall, closes and locks the door, unzips with a sigh, and leans  
his forehead against the cool metal willing his erection to subside.  
It's definitely punishment. It has to be. He stands there, fists clenched,  
for several minutes. His body is not being particularly cooperative.  
He hears someone come into the bathroom, and turns around so it at least  
looks like he _might_ be using the john.  
        "Ray?"  
        It's all he can do not  
to groan. "Yeah, Frase?"  
        "Are  
you all right?"  
        "Yeah,  
just. . . had a call of nature."  
        "Ah.  
I see. I was. . . concerned."  
        "I'm  
okay. Really okay. Okay?" Jesus. Talk much?  
        "You're  
sure?"  
        Fraser  
still sounds concerned. Maybe even worried. Fraser's worrying about  
him. That makes a warm, non-sexy feeling inside him. Helps with the.  
. . problem. "Yeah, I'm sure. Really."  
        "All  
right, Ray. I'll just get something to clean you- ah- your desk, up."  
        What the. . . had Fraser  
just stammered? He wishes he could open the door and look at his face  
but he can't. "Okay, thanks, that's good."  
        He  
hears the door of the stall next to him open, and freezes, just use paper  
towels, Fraser, you don't need tissue, please, don't be so close, he's  
almost got this licked. . . shit. Should not have thought that word.  
He grits his teeth, waits it out while Fraser gets cleaning supplies,  
and finally, finally leaves. He sits down on the john with a sigh, stares  
at his crotch, mutters "Down, boy."  
        The  
door opens again. Two voices. Huey and Dewey, throwing bad one liners  
back and forth while they do their duty. Okay, that does it. Thank  
God. He flushes the john for cover, zips up, and goes to the sink to  
wash. He's just drying his hands when Fraser reappears, drops a handful  
of coffee-soaked tissue into the garbage and moves to the other sink.  
        "I've spoken  
to Diefenbaker," Fraser says as he washes coffee off his hands.  
"He's quite remorseful. He didn't mean to startle you."  
        "Know that, Frase.  
It's no big deal. I'm fine."  
        Fraser  
has a faint, thoughtful frown on his face. "Yes."  
        Yes?  
What kind of a reply is that? Ray's frowning now. "You okay, Frase?"  
        Fraser straightens, shuts  
off the tap, and moves to get a paper towel. "Of course, Ray.  
None of the coffee reached me."  
        "That  
wasn't what I . . . oh, never mind. Thanks for cleaning up."  
        "Not a problem,  
Ray. It was, after all, Diefenbaker's fault."  
        "Yeah,  
well then you should made him clean it up."  
        "Well,  
I would have, but suspected you wouldn't appreciate his method of doing  
so." Fraser says blandly.  
        Ray  
chuckles. "Thanks, you're a real friend. Wolf spit on my desk,  
yeah. Hey, there's a hockey game on tonight. Want to come over and  
watch? We can get a pizza or something"  
        The  
minute he says it he realizes what a stupid idea that is. Oh yeah, just  
get Fraser over on your damned couch, Ray, when you can hardly keep your  
hands off him at work, for God's sake. But it's said, and he can't take  
it back, and Fraser's looking at him like he just proposed. Except if  
a guy proposed to another guy he probably wouldn't look like that, he'd  
probably be horrified. So maybe he was looking at him like Dief looked  
at a piece of cake. Um, nope, don't think that one either. He's seen  
just how Dief looks at cake. Fraser looks happy. That's it. That's  
all. Well, no, that's not all. Fraser looks kind of funny . . . a little,  
flushed.  
        "Why,  
yes, Ray. I would like that very much. I'm . . . ah . . . very fond  
of hockey."  
        "Cool,"  
he says, maybe a little too brightly, but Fraser doesn't seem to notice.  
Ray wonders how he's going to make it through the evening.  


*  
* *  


  
        Fraser knows what he's  
doing is . . . wrong. If Ray wants to tell him he's sexually attracted  
to men in general, or . . . to him, in specific, he should be allowed  
to do so in his own time, at his own pace. It's wrong, very wrong, to.  
. . push him this way. But once begun, Fraser has found it impossible  
to stop. Slippery slope, indeed. As they walk up the stairs to Ray's  
floor, he pushes away the imaginings that walking behind Ray and thinking  
'slippery slope' conjure in him, and tries to tell himself he will behave,  
be the perfect guest, polite, and considerate, and they will watch the  
hockey game and have a pleasant, enjoyable evening. And then he'll go  
home to his cot in the Consulate and lose himself in images of Ray with  
. . . . Stop, he tells himself firmly. Just stop.  
          
They've arrived at Ray's door, he's slipping the key into the lock .  
. . and it's entirely insane that such an ordinary action should be erotic,  
yet it is. Ray puts his hand on the doorknob, then hesitates.  
        "Um, Frase, couldja  
wait out here for a second?"  
        He  
blinks. "Certainly, Ray. Whatever you wish."  
        Ray  
gives an embarrassed half-smile. "Thanks. It's just, it's. . .  
uh, kind of a mess. I want to clean up a little. Shoulda thought of  
that before I asked you over."  
        "Nonsense,  
Ray. I'm sure your apartment is fine. You certainly don't need to clean  
up on my account."  
        Ray  
appears to weigh his words, so Fraser tries to give them more weight.  
        "After all, I have  
been here before."  
        Ray's  
eyes flash up to his, and there's something. . . _something_ there.  
Bright, hot, and quickly hidden beneath an almost-shy lowering of lashes.  
"Yeah. Invading my castle," he says, but the words have no  
heat in them. He grins, and shrugs. "Okay, you win." He  
pushes open the door and they step inside.  
        Fraser  
wishes he could stop making double entendres out of everything. The  
apartment is a trifle messier than last time, but that doesn't bother  
him. Just being here is an unexpected pleasure. Ray does a quick tour  
of the coffee-table, collecting dishes, heading for the kitchen sink  
with them. He misses a glass, down next to the couch, and Fraser retrieves  
it and follows him. Ray's running water in the sink, adding dishwashing  
soap. He reaches over for the glass in Fraser's hand. "Go. Sit."  
        "Why don't you use  
the dishwasher?" Fraser asks, surrendering the glass, trying to  
pretend there's no spark as those wet fingers touch his. He's truly  
curious. He would have thought Ray would be the 'convenience' type.  
        "There's just a  
few, seems like a waste to run it for just. . . me."  
        There's  
a hint of loneliness in that statement that he recognizes. He knows  
just how that feels. Instinctively he settles a hand on Ray's shoulder,  
comfortingly. Ray looks around, startled, and he reminds himself he  
wasn't going to do things like that and lets his hand fall, finding refuge  
in a platitude, as usual. "That's very ecologically conscious,  
Ray."  
        Ray shrugs,  
smiles. "Whatever. Go sit."  
        "May  
I help?" he asks, not wanting to move away, to be separated by  
so much space.  
        "You're  
the guest, Fraser. Guests don't work."  
        "I'd  
like to, Ray."  
        Ray  
rolls his eyes in amused exasperation. "Okay, fine. You dry."  
        Fraser turns, catching  
up the dish towel from the oven door, right where he remembered it from  
his first visit. They finish the dishes quickly and then Ray reaches  
across the counter and snags his phone, hitting an autodial button.  
Waits for a moment, then grins. "Heya, Anton, my man. It's Ray."  
He pauses, makes little nodding motion, still smiling. "You got  
it. The usual, except bigger. Oh, and throw in a couple of salads,  
okay? What? Oh, yeah, I got a date," he glances at Fraser, grins,  
and winks. "A hockey date. Yeah, throws a mean block."  
        Fraser prays that enough  
of Ray's attention is on his phone call that any betraying expression  
he might have made has gone unnoticed. He turns and pretends to study  
Ray's cookbooks, wishing it were, indeed, a date.  
        "No,  
Tony, Sandor doesn't need to go pick up a bottle of wine for me on the  
way over. My . . . date," he grins again, clearly enjoying himself.  
"My date don't drink. Nope. Yeah, I know, makes it tough to get  
to first base, but you know, sometimes the hard way is worth it."  
        Fraser reflects darkly  
that he supposes he's earned this. It's only fair that he suffer in  
return.  
        "Dinner'll  
be here in half an hour," Ray says, hanging up the phone. "We  
can see what's on Discovery channel until the game starts, if you want.  
Or we can swap recipes. . ." he's got that teasing note in his  
voice again, and Fraser turns quickly away from the cookbooks.  
        "I  
wasn't aware you cooked."  
        "Don't  
much, not any more. Used to. Stel had to put in pretty long hours sometimes.  
I don't know, it feels kinda. . . weird, cooking for one. . . "  
his voice trails off and he shrugs, smiles an unhappy smile.  
        Fraser  
nods his understanding.  
        Ray  
clears his throat. "C'mon, let's see what's on the tube."  
        Fraser starts to take  
a seat in the wingback chair, and Ray shakes his head. "Nah, you  
take the couch, Frase. You can't see the TV good from there."  
He picks up the remote control, hands it to Fraser, and nods toward his  
bedroom. "Knock yourself out, I'm gonna go get rid of some shit,"  
he says, then winces. "I mean stuff."  
        Ben  
nods, and tries not to watch him walk into his bedroom. Hears cuffs  
and harness hit the dresser, just as he'd imagined. Hears a hushed expletive,  
a couple of soft 'thunks,' then the sound of a drawer closing, hard.  
For some reason he doesn't think it sounds like a dresser drawer, imagines  
what those thunks might have been, and he's fighting arousal. He suddenly  
overly warm, and intensely thankful that his tunic covers a multitude  
of sins.  
        There  
are a few more unidentifiable noises from the bedroom; and then Ray reemerges,  
barefoot, and looking even more tousled than he normally does, probably  
because he stripped off the sweatshirt he'd been wearing, and is now  
down to the T-shirt he'd worn beneath it. Clearly an old favorite, it's  
plain white and well-worn with a small hole just below the collar ribbing  
and another at the shoulder. It's instantly a favorite of Fraser's,  
as well, probably for entirely different reasons than it might be for  
Ray. The thinness of the worn fabric leaves the lean torso beneath it  
nearly visible. He suddenly understands the advertisements he's seen  
for 'wet T-shirt contests.'  
        Ray  
heads for the kitchen, stops, and looks at Fraser. "You gonna stand  
there all night? Sit down, get comfortable." He frowns suddenly.  
"Shoot, we should've gone by the Consulate first so you could change.  
You can't get comfortable in that, can you?"  
        "It's  
fine, Ray," Fraser protests, fearing where this is heading. "Really.  
I'm quite comfortable."  
        "Yeah,  
right," Ray says drily. "You're already sweating."  
        Well, he can't exactly  
confess the reason for that. "You do keep your apartment rather  
warmer than we keep the Consulate," he explains cautiously.  
        "Yeah, seems to  
pick up heat from the other apartments. Doesn't seem to matter what  
I set my thermostat on. So peel down, at least," Ray changes course,  
goes to the closet by the door, takes out a hanger, waves it at Fraser  
with a grin. "See, you can hang it up, it won't even get wrinkled."  
        He sighs, nods, knowing  
there's no way to refuse. He crosses the room, takes the hanger from  
Ray, and gives him the remote in exchange. "Why don't you find  
the correct station," he suggests. "I'm not familiar with  
your settings."  
        Ray  
nods. "Yeah, I will. Want something to drink?"  
        "Yes,  
water, thank you."  
        Ray  
moves into the kitchen and gets out glasses. Fraser begins the process  
of removing his tunic. Lanyard, Sam Browne, velcro, buttons. By the  
time he's out of it, he's under control again. Thankfully. Ray's right,  
he does feel better, cooler now. It wasn't just his unruly libido, the  
apartment really is a little warm. He's far more comfortable in just  
his henley. He hangs up the tunic, places his other accoutrements on  
the shelf above, and returns to the living room. Ray is standing in  
front of the television, studying a screen with an information crawl  
on it. He waves the remote at the TV. "Looks like there's a forensic  
science thing on Discover, if you want to watch it."  
        That  
would be fine, Ray," Fraser says, settling gingerly onto the sofa  
next to Diefenbaker, who has co-opted most of it. "Diefenbaker,  
really," he begins, firmly, but Ray interrupts him.  
        "Nah,  
he's okay, Frase. Let him stay." Ray settles into the wing-chair,  
and reaches over to pick up a glass from the coffee table, gesturing  
toward a second glass. "There's your water."  
        Fraser  
nods and picks up his own glass, sipping as Ray unmutes the television.  
They both watch for a few minutes as a homicide and its aftermath is  
staged for the camera, and they begin arguing good-naturedly over the  
preferable method of investigation and the probable method of murder.  
The food arrives, and they eat, still arguing over the solution to the  
crime. It's not until they realize they're missing the game and change  
channels that Fraser notices Ray keeps rubbing the back of his neck.  
He finally remembers that Ray said the wing-chair didn't have a good  
view of the television, and as he analyzes the angle, he can tell that's  
so. Ray has to strain to see the screen.  
        "Ray,  
why don't you come sit here? You'd be able to see much more easily."  
        Ray looks over, and Fraser  
wonders why he looks so flushed. "Nah, Frase, don't want to disturb  
Dief."  
        "Well,  
that's just silly, Ray. It's your couch."  
        "You  
guys are guests."  
        "Diefenbaker  
is quite accustomed to resting on the floor."  
        "I  
know, but it's a treat for him. I'm okay, really."  
        It's  
clear he's not going to back down about Diefenbaker. Fraser frowns,  
thinks for a moment, studies the sofa, Diefenbaker's position, and his  
own, thinks about the narrowness of Ray's hips. It should work. He  
shifts over against Dief, pushing him a little. Dief grumbles but curls  
up tighter. "There's room," Fraser says, quietly. "Please,  
Ray, I can't concentrate on the game if I know you're in discomfort."  
        Ray looks at him, sighs.  
"You're not going to let this go, are you?"  
        Fraser  
shakes his head. "No, Ray."  
        Ray  
sighs again. "Okay. Okay, fine," he mutters as he stands  
up and moves to the couch, takes a seat between Fraser and the arm of  
the couch.  
        He does  
fit there. Barely. Once he's settled, the entire right side of his  
body is pressed warmly all along Fraser's left side, touching along arm,  
hip, thigh. Fraser begins to think that perhaps this wasn't such a good  
idea. It wasn't intentional, this time he really was simply thinking  
of Ray's comfort, but after a few minutes it becomes clear that comfort  
is not in the offing for either of them. When Ray lifts his hand to  
point the remote at the television and mute the commercials, Fraser notices  
that it's trembling slightly. In his peripheral vision he can see Ray  
moisten his lips, over and over, as if he's nervous, or, something else.  
He finds himself doing the same.  
        Ray  
is sitting unnaturally still, for him. Fraser can barely feel him breathing,  
and knows this isn't normal. Ray, even were there not an athletic competition  
on television that he wanted to watch, would be in constant motion.  
He usually finds that energy both annoying, and endearing. But now he's  
still. So still. Moving only his hand, his arm, with the remote. So  
close. He can smell him. Smell. . . ah, God. He shouldn't have noticed,  
God, he shouldn't have noticed, that's a scent he knows, on himself,  
the rich pheromone-laden scent of arousal, and . . . fear. Ray's afraid.  
He doesn't want him afraid. That's not right.  
        He  
tries to think of something to say, something to put Ray at ease, but  
he can't because that scent, the not-fear scent makes him feel hungry,  
in a deep, wild way, and all he can think about is the ways he thinks  
of Ray late at night in the Consulate, the ways that keep him awake and  
aware and aroused until he can't keep from touching himself, imagining  
Ray doing the same, but with that . . . object, he found. And always,  
at some point, it's no longer that, it's him, there, and suddenly he's  
shaking too.  
        "Ray."  
The name escapes his lips, his voice dark, and startlingly husky.  
        He turns his head, just  
as Ray looks at him, and their eyes lock. Ray looks as wild and hungry  
as Fraser feels, his eyes pale and wide and full of terrified heat that  
turns the amber flecks in them to sparks. He wants to soothe that fear,  
taste the hunger, know that wildness. He reaches out, lays his fingers  
along Ray's jaw, then moves that scant distance to seal his mouth over  
Ray's.  
        He tastes  
so good, smells even better. Bacon, pineapple, tomatoes, but so much  
better than all that, so much more, so much . . . Ray. Something indefinable.  
Hot, and sweet, and wonderful. He feels fingers digging into his shoulder,  
not pushing him away, pulling him forward, and Ray's moving toward him,  
tilting his head so their mouths align even better, and he's kissing  
back, hard, tongue sliding out to lick at his own.  
        Ray  
is aggressively taking his offered mouth, and one hand is moving from  
clutch to caress up the back of his neck, making his skin tighten in  
response, and the other is . . . the other is. . . he moans as those  
long, long fingers slide down his chest to mold themselves over his groin.  
He's both shocked, and incredibly aroused. He never expected that a  
kiss would lead so quickly to. . . this, but that's Ray, flinging himself  
in where angels feared to tread. He tries to pull away, which has the  
simultaneous and unintended effect of inducing Diefenbaker to get down  
and allowing Ray to push him down flat against the cushions. He's not  
exactly sure how things slipped out of his control but they definitely  
have.  
        Dangerous  
territory, that lean, hard body against his. He can feel the heavy ridge  
of Ray's erection against his thigh, and that mouth, that tongue is on  
him, in him, and, oh lord, that makes him remember every dark, lonely  
fantasy he's had in the weeks since he returned from Canada and discovered  
this exotic stranger in his old friend's place. He bucks up against  
the delicious weight that pushes him into the couch, and hears a soft,  
pleased sound from the man above him. Dimly he realizes he should have  
thought this could happen, Ray's experience no doubt far outweighs his  
own, and Ray is. . . impulsive.  
        Just  
when he thinks he might black out from lack of oxygen, Ray lifts his  
head, drags in a breath that makes it sound as if he were the one in  
need of air, and leans back in to run his nose along the curve of Ben's  
right cheekbone.  
        "Beautiful,  
beautiful man. Want you, God, I want you. Why didn't you tell me? Thought  
I was going nuts. . ."  
        Before  
Fraser can organize his thoughts to answer, his mouth is taken again,  
teeth catching his lip, nibbling, then mouth sucking, then tongue, again,  
long, agile tongue, learning his mouth, his teeth, the palate, the  
soft sublingual tissues. He wants to do the same, and it suddenly occurs  
to him that he's just lying there, not . . . participating. And that's  
not just silly, it's stupid, which he prides himself on not being, so  
he tentatively puts his arms around Ray's back, feeling the bone and  
muscle close beneath the skin, the heat so evident through the thin fabric  
of his shirt. He lets his tongue move against Ray's and is rewarded  
by a sound, almost a purr. It vibrates against his tongue, his lips,  
and makes him want to feel that, elsewhere.  
        Suddenly  
Ray pulls back, chest heaving like he's been running a marathon, and  
rakes a hand through his hair. "Jeez," he whispers. "Gotta  
slow down."  
        "No,"  
Fraser says instantly. If Ray slows down, if he gives Fraser time to  
think, he's afraid he'll stop them, stop this, that good sense may prevail,  
and he doesn't want it to. He wants this. Wants Ray. Wants to run  
headlong off this cliff and see if this time, this time he can fly.  
Ray has already proven he's adept at making the most unlikely things  
fly.  
        "No?"  
Ray looks at him, frowning faintly. "No, don't keep going, or no,  
don't slow down?"  
        "Don't.  
. . slow down," Fraser manages in a strangled whisper.  
        Ray's  
answering grin is nearly blinding. Fierce, and ecstatic, and utterly  
beautiful. "Oh, God, Fraser. Want you, need you, so bad. I can't  
believe this. This is, like, a dream or something. Don't wake me up."  
        Fraser shakes his head.  
"Don't wake me, either." He touches his fingers to Ray's lips  
like he's wanted to do since the first moment they met and he'd been  
shocked speechless by the actinic beauty of him, and then he's reaching  
up, pulling him down, and their mouths are locked together again, a fusion  
of wet heat and sensation.  
        Time  
seems to lose all significance, he's lost to everything except the intoxication  
of pleasure Ray is creating in him. He licks stubbled jaw, loving the  
roughness against his tongue, the taste of him, better even than he had  
imagined. Boldly, he kisses down the long line of his throat, the tendon  
there that catches his eye so often, and he pulls roughly at the neck  
of the T-shirt to bare the hollow wing of clavicle to his lips, hears/feels  
fabric give way under his grip. That shocks him back to reality for  
a moment. "Ray, I . . ." he begins,  
        "Shhh,  
no. No. S'okay. Don't care."  
        Ray's  
words seem to tumble over themselves, said in that quick, harsh, Chicago  
husk. He can barely speak, then there's no need to speak as his mouth  
claims Fraser's again, suckling at him, biting him. Hips push at his,  
bringing their erections together through layers of clothing. Then with  
a curse Ray is undressing him, almost feverishly, pulling his shirt out  
of his waistband, shoving it upward, hands brushing, muttering against  
his bared skin, 'Starving, Fraser, starving, Ben, so damned hungry for  
you..."  
        Lips  
close around one nipple, and he moans, clutching at Ray's hip with one  
hand, the other buried in the soft-harsh spikes of his hair. He's surprised,  
though he's not sure why, that the mouth on his nipple feels so . . .  
damned . . . good. Hand at his waist, no fumbling at all, just the smooth,  
sure release of button, the easy slide of zipper down, spread of fabric  
under knowing hand. He holds his breath, wondering, waiting, and then,  
ahhh God, yes. There. Just. Ohgod.  
        Long  
fingers, warm, slightly rough, a hand that gets used, and abused. As  
knuckles brush his thigh he can feel the knotted texture of the healing  
cuts on Ray's knuckles. Fraser touches his lips to the faint shadow  
of bruise that still lingers on that angular cheekbone, then seeks Ray's  
mouth, softly, as he pushes himself up against that exploring hand.  
He allows his own hand to stray beneath Ray's shirt, brushing against  
his stomach, up his ribs, then finding one taut nipple, hoping it will  
feel as good to Ray as it does to him.  
        From  
the arch and moan, it does. That excites him as much as the hand slipping  
inside his boxers. He tugs at the nub of flesh a little harder, and  
in return Ray sucks harder on him, fanning a tight, sparking pleasure  
that seems directly connected to his groin. Fraser slides his hand,  
fast, up to where he tore the shirt before, grabs, and yanks. The old  
fabric gives without a fight, and Ray is bared to his mouth. He takes  
what's offered there, licking, sucking. He moves the hand that had been  
on Ray's hip around behind to cup his backside, fingers splaying out  
across those shallow curves, pushing him hard down against him. Ray  
moans again, lets him go.  
        "Fraser,  
you . . . oh, fuck."  
        Said  
in this context, that word is as erotic as a touch. Fraser pushes, again,  
frustrated by the heavy denim that keeps his fingers from Ray's skin.  
He slides his hand higher, finds the waistband, and slips beneath it,  
beneath the giving softness of briefs, there, finally, skin. Warm, and  
amazingly smooth-soft, and a little sweaty. He's imagined this, a thousand  
times, this touch, and . . . more. His fingers trace the slight cleft  
there, not dipping inside, not daring, but Ray groans and bucks.  
        "Oh, God, yeah."  
        Ray's moving, putting  
a knee between his thighs, lifting his weight, then both hands are at  
his waist and clever fingers are sliding beneath elastic and cotton and  
pushing his boxers down, freeing his aching erection. He can't help  
it, he groans, shocking himself with the raw, open need in his voice.  
"Ray. . ."  
        "I  
gotcha, Fraser," Ray says, head bent, gazing at him like a starving  
man looks at food. "God, you are so beautiful. You are so fucking  
beautiful. Beautiful everywhere, beautiful mind, and eyes, and mouth,  
and. . . cock. Beautiful. . . " his fingers curl around Fraser's  
penis, gently, but firmly, and he strokes, and Fraser arches into that  
touch with a throaty grunt of pleasure. Ray laughs softly. "Oooh,  
like that, hunh?"  
        His  
reply comes out a wordless moan. He likes it. Loves it. It's amazing,  
so much better than his own touch, the anticipation and surprise of each  
touch adding immeasurably to his excitement. Ray strokes him with perfect,  
knowing strokes. He's so good, so perfect. And so . . . covered. Fraser  
reaches a hand up, catches a belt-loop, and tugs. Actual words form.  
"Ray. Please."  
        Ray  
looks at him, frowning, puzzled, then suddenly that daybreak grin flashes  
into being and Ray laughs. "Yeah, yeah, that'd be good, hunh?"  
He gives one more little stroke, then his hand leaves Fraser's penis  
and he feels abandoned, until he sees that Ray's hand is on his own fly,  
and he's opening buttons in a casual fashion that is infinitely more  
erotic than a strip-tease. He's wearing gray cotton boxer-briefs under  
his jeans, and the knit fabric molds revealingly around his erection.  
Fraser becomes aware that he's staring, avidly, waiting, his tongue laving  
dry lips.  
        Ray chuckles,  
hooks his thumbs in the waistband, and pushes down, coyly, revealing  
just an inch of bare golden-pale abdomen. Impatient, Fraser reaches  
out and attempts to assist. Ray laughs, and lets him, and oh, lord,  
suddenly Fraser understands Ray's word choice. He's beautiful. Long,  
and hard, and flushed and utterly perfect. And he wants, he wants .  
. . so much . . . to taste. He licks his lips again. "Ray - do  
you - would you mind - "  
        "Would  
I mind?" Ray interrupts before he can finish his question, and he  
dives like a bird of prey. That provocative mouth closes around his  
penis and for a fraction of a second Fraser wants to protest that this  
isn't what he meant, but the impulse lasts only long enough for the sensations  
of heat, wetness, and suction to slam into him. He groans, hands sliding  
into Ray's hair. He feels Ray flinch a little, realizes his fingers  
are catching in the stiffly gelled spikes and tries to temper his touch,  
but it just feels too good, he can't help himself.  
        And  
Ray doesn't stop, he just keeps doing those unimaginably wonderful things  
to him, his hand stroking the part of his penis that isn't enclosed in  
that warm, wet haven of pleasure as he sucks, and . . . licks. Over  
the years Fraser has used his tongue for a great many things, but until  
this moment it has never occurred to him that a tongue could be used  
as an instrument of torture. Sweet, delicious torture, torture that induces  
him to submit not only willingly but rapturously to his tormentor, but  
torture nonetheless. His body protests or seeks that tongue, that torture,  
he's not sure which, as he bucks involuntarily, thrusting into that sweetness.  
        Ray leans on him,  
one arm across his hips, holding him down as best he can. He isn't entirely  
successful, as he doesn't weigh enough to hold Fraser down through main  
force, though his wiry strength nearly offsets that. Maddeningly he  
finds he can only arch a little, and he has to let Ray set the rhythm,  
which Ray does to perfection. Hand, and mouth, and tongue all working  
in tandem, fast, and hard, so hard it might hurt if it didn't feel so  
. . . damned . . . good. Heat seems to flood through him, curling his  
toes, his fingers into the cushions, and around Ray's shoulder and he  
surrenders to his need with a broken, breathy groan. Each individual  
pulse of his orgasm make him shake and whimper as Ray sucks it out of  
him, and swallows, and sucks, and swallows, until he's drained in every  
imaginable way.

* * *  


  
        Ray sits back, rolling  
his neck and shoulders a little, massaging his jaw with one hand. Damn,  
that'd been harder than he'd thought it would be. No wonder Stella had  
bitched sometimes. But it's good, too. He feels a kind of pleased-proud  
feeling to have brought Fraser off like that, especially since he's never  
done anything like that before. Well, he has, but not with a guy. It's  
way different with a guy. He kind of gets the feeling that Fraser hasn't  
either . . . and not just not with another guy. The amazement on his  
face when Ray had taken him into his mouth had sort of suggested maybe  
nobody'd ever done it to him before. Jesus, how could a guy get to be  
Fraser's age without ever having had a blowjob?  
        He  
drops his hand from his jaw and gives his neglected cock a stroke, just  
to sort of tell it not to worry, and it suddenly dawns on him that he  
really just blew it. Unless Fraser is Superman, he's going to be out  
of commission, so to speak, for awhile now. Which meant that Ray wasn't  
going to get to do what he desperately wanted to do. Or rather, have  
done. Damn. He sighs, just as Fraser opens dazed blue-gray eyes and  
gazes up at him.  
        "Ray,"  
he says.  
         That's  
all. Just his name. But the way he says it sends a little shiver through  
Ray. Husky, and dark, and sexy, and deep. He clears his throat.  
        "Yeah, Frase?"  
        "I . . . that was  
. . . ."  
        A  
blush creeps into his face, making Ray grin. He can't finish, but Ray  
knows what he wants to, and can't, say. "Yeah," Ray agrees,  
rubbing his tongue against his teeth, tasting it again, feeling it again,  
that swelling pulse, the hot jets of slick salty come across his tongue.  
"It was."  
        Fraser  
licks his lips. Ray can't resist. He leans down, and they kiss again,  
and oh, damn Fraser is good at that, even if he's never had a blowjob.  
His hands are sliding down Ray's back, cupping his bare ass, and Ray  
can't help but buck and groan at that touch. Oh, damn he's regretting  
it now, bad. Shouldn't have made him come. He's got Fraser, here, naked  
(well mostly) in his apartment, thisclose to getting his fantasy fulfilled,  
and he blows it.  
        And  
this might be the only time, because who knew if he'd ever get Fraser  
here like this again? It was a big enough shock to have him here now.  
He felt like a dog with a really great bone, worried that it was going  
to get taken away from him at any second when Fraser came to his senses  
and realized exactly who he'd just gotten sucked off by. The only thing  
Ray could figure was that ham and pineapple pizza and a hockey game must  
be like some sort of arctic aphrodisiac.  
        Fraser  
gives his ass a little squeeze, then he's sliding one of his hands down  
to rub at Ray's hip, then he's turning a little, so he can slide it between  
them, to where Ray is pressed hard, and wet against his abdomen, then  
it's on him, that broad, square palm curving around his cock, thick fingers  
stroking him gently. He shivers, and embarrasses himself with a little  
whimper, not sure which sensation feels better, the hand on his ass,  
or the one on his cock. God, he wants to be fucked. Wants to feel Fraser  
inside him, like he's pretended all those times, that hard, slick length,  
but hot this time, hot and real. It's not fair. "It's just not  
fair."  
        "Mmm,  
what's not fair?" Fraser asks, not unreasonably.  
        Ray  
feels the blood rush into his face and hides it against Fraser's shoulder.  
"Nothing. Never mind. Didn't mean to say that."  
        The  
hand on his ass moves in a little circular pattern, fingers dip between  
his cheeks. Ray whimpers again, bucking into Fraser's big, warm hand.  
        "Ohgod."  
        Movement stills. "Is  
that. . . is that all right?" Fraser sounds uncertain, concerned.  
        "Oh yeah,"  
Ray sighs. "Just wish . . ." he clamps his lips shut on the  
rest of his words. Doesn't want to scare him away.  
        "Wish  
what, Ray?" Fraser asks after a moment, his hands resuming their  
slow stroking. "You can tell me. In fact . . . ."  
        He  
pauses a moment, and Ray feels a sudden heat sweep through the skin beneath  
his lips.  
        "In  
fact I . . . have something I think I should. . . no, I must tell you."  
        Fraser sounds. . . afraid.  
Ray lifts his head. "What?"  
        Fraser  
won't look at him, his eyes are fixed on some point over Ray's shoulder.  
"I. . . when I was here, before. I did an unconscionable thing."  
        Ray can feel him  
withdrawing, pulling into himself. He takes his hands off Ray, leaving  
him feeling alone, and abandoned. "Whatever it was, it can't be  
that bad, Frase."  
        "I  
invaded your privacy."  
        Ray  
frowns, then he gets it. Fraser is still talking about the day of the  
eclipse. "Well, yeah, but we already covered that. It's okay.  
You had to come in to figure out where I was. I know."  
        "No,  
Ray, it was far worse than that. I mean, that was my original motivation  
but . . . it's not all I did."  
        Knowing  
Fraser, Ray suspects that whatever he did was probably along the lines  
of stealing a cookie or using a glass and not washing it, so he pushes  
himself up, trying to ignore his insistent hard-on. "Okay, I can  
see this is gonna bug you until you tell me, so spill."  
        Fraser  
nods, and sighs. "I know it was wrong. I knew that before I did  
it, I know it now, and I should have told you sooner, confessed what  
I had done, but I was afraid. I didn't know, didn't understand that  
you. . . that you felt as I did. . . do. And I needed to know more about  
you, who you are, things I've learned since then, by simply asking, and  
I should have asked then, and now. . . ."  
        "Frase,"  
Ray interrupts gently, "you got a point?" He's trying hard  
not to laugh. Leave it to Fraser to get all worked up about being a nosey  
parker. Goofball.  
        Another  
sigh. "I'm sorry, Ray. I looked through your things. Your medicine  
chest, your closet, and. . . your drawers."  
        That  
had been a pretty significant pause there. Ray's grin fades abruptly.  
"All - all my drawers?"  
        "Yes,"  
Fraser confesses, sounding perfectly miserable and determined to come  
clean.  
        Drawers.  
He stares at Fraser, hard. "Even . . . ?"  
        Fraser  
finally looks up, and the answer is plain in his eyes, in the blush that  
washes across his cheeks. "Yes."  
        Ray  
feels matching blood in his own face, and sits up abruptly, turning away,  
fumbling with his briefs and jeans. Fraser struggles to sit up too,  
awkwardly rearranging his own clothing. Then something slinks through  
the embarrassment Ray's about to die from, something -- well, shit, he's  
embarrassed, Fraser's embarrassed, they're even. But Fraser's voice  
. . . he'd sounded almost . . . turned on, breathy, husky all over again,  
with that second 'Yes.'  
        "Yeah?"  
Ray says tentatively, wanting to hear it again.  
        Fraser  
nods, this time, and his fading blush renews itself. Ray feels his grin  
reappearing. "All my drawers, huh?" he says thoughtfully.  
"So, um, you find anything interesting?"  
        Fraser  
blushes harder, but surprisingly, he teases back: "Red and white  
striped underwear. . ."  
        "Oh,"  
Ray says, exaggeratedly disappointed. "Guess you didn't look in  
 _all_ my drawers, then."  
        "Well,  
there were a few other . . . interesting things."  
        "Uh  
hunh. . . ." Ray says, trying to imagine the look on Fraser's face  
when he opened that drawer. And what he keeps seeing isn't disgust,  
it's . . . interest. "So, you found it?" he prompts.  
        Fraser  
swallows hard, rubs his eyebrow. "I, ah, I did find it, and I was  
. . . intrigued. I was . . . to be honest, Ray, I was hopeful. I thought  
perhaps it might mean . . . well, that you weren't entirely averse to  
. . . and I tried to see if you really were . . . ah . . . interested."  
        Ray stares, stunned,  
as puzzle pieces fall into place all over the damned place. "You  
mean you were doing all that on purpose? Jesus, you've been driving me  
nuts! I thought you were the most clueless thing on the planet and I  
had to sit on my damned hands to keep them to myself, because you sure  
weren't!"  
        "I'm  
sorry, Ray. I didn't mean to be cruel."  
        "But  
you do a damned fine imitation," Ray puts in, smiling to take the  
sting out. "So, now you have to . . . make it up to me."  
He's not above a little manipulation himself, not now, not when he's  
figured out that Fraser's been wanting this, he's just too controlled  
and . . . (and it's kind of shocking to Ray to realize this) he's insecure  
about all this too.  
        "I  
would like that, Ray," Fraser says, his voice dropping down into  
that intimate, husky register that's starting to get to Ray bigtime.  
He reaches out, curls his fingers over Ray's shoulder as he leans forward,  
bringing their mouths together again. And oh, that tongue, the one that's  
tormented Ray's dreams for weeks, is licking into him, and he's sucking  
on it like it's candy, so sweet. He moans, shocked, a moment later as  
Ben's hand works its way beneath his briefs and wraps around him again.  
He'd gone pretty soft while they talked, but between that mouth on his  
and that hand on him, that's changing fast. Fraser turns his head a  
little, licks at the corner of his mouth, and speaks.  
        "What  
was it you wished, Ray?"  
        He's  
confused for a minute. What does he want? No, that's not what he asked.  
He asked what he had wish. . . oh. "It's nothing, don't worry about  
it."  
        "I'm  
. . . not worried," Fraser says, pausing between words to explore  
Ray's jaw with his tongue. Mud wasn't the only thing he liked to lick.  
"I just want to know."  
        Ray  
knows Fraser too well to think he'll let this go. He won't. He chuckles  
ruefully. "Well, um, don't take this wrong, but I kind of wished  
I hadn't done that."  
        "'That?'"  
Fraser asks, puzzled. "You mean. . . what you did with me?"  
        Ray nods. "Yeah.  
And no, not 'cause I didn't like it, I did. Okay? It was cool. No.  
I just kinda. . . blew my chance for awhile."  
        "Your  
chance at what?"  
        Ray  
grins, snakes his hand down the front of Fraser's pants and gives the  
soft cock beneath the fabric a little pat. "You, dummy."  
        Fraser stares at him,  
big-eyed, and Ray can't help but be amused as he blushes. "You wanted  
me to. . . . "  
        Ray  
grins. "Got news for you Frase, that's why I bought the damned  
thing. Wanted you, didn't think I could have you, settled for that.  
Guess I'll have to settle a little while longer."  
        Fraser's  
eyes go even wider, and he chokes, coughs, and his tongue slides out  
to moisten his lower lip in a way that makes Ray want to suck on both.  
That conjures an immediate and visceral reaction, and his cock goes from  
mostly hard to seriously-going-to-come-soon in about a tenth of a second.  
Fraser's hand tightens on him and neither of them speaks for a few seconds.  
They're both blushing about the color of Fraser's dress uniform, and  
neither can quite meet the other's eyes. Ray's just starting to figure  
he's blown it again, when Fraser clears his throat.  
        "I  
could . . . help," he offers, solemnly.  
        Help.  
Oh yeah. He could help. Lots of ways he could help. That mouth, those  
hands. Oh yeah. He looks hard at Fraser. Sees the heat in those normally  
placid eyes. He wants to. Sounds like. Looks like. "Yeah?"  
        Fraser closes his eyes  
briefly, bites his lip, flushes redder. "I . . . if . . . if you'd  
like."  
        If he'd  
like? Jesus. Stupid question. He looks sideways at Fraser again. Fraser  
looks back, steady, a little scared, a lot excited. Waiting. He's- no,  
they've been . . . waiting . . . for weeks. And now they don't have to.  
Ray stands, a little awkwardly, tugs Fraser's hand, nods at the bedroom.  
And suddenly Fraser's ahead of him, pulling Ray along with him. Waiting's  
over. Thank God.  
        Now  
that he's got Fraser started, he's surprisingly aggressive. Within moment  
of reaching the bedroom Ray has been ruthlessly stripped of the remains  
of his T-shirt, his jeans and briefs shoved down around his knees. He's  
flat on his back on his already unmade bed, his mouth occupied by Fraser's  
as if it's enemy territory in need of taking, and it's so damned good  
he's already humping against the thigh that's snug between his own, and  
moaning like he's gut-shot, and Fraser is all, all over him, big, and  
warm, and wearing way too many clothes still. Ray pushes at him until  
he finally lifts his mouth, takes a minute to catch his breath, and tugs  
at Fraser's henley. "Off. Take this off. And the damned pants  
are itchy," he complains with a grin.  
        Fraser  
leans back down, bites Ray's earlobe, and whispers. "You get accustomed  
to it."  
        Ray  
laughs, and shoves Fraser up with both hands. "I got no intention  
of getting accustomed to it. Get naked, now, Benton Fraser, I don't  
want to be the only one." Benton. Jesus, what a name. Almost  
as bad as Stanley.  
        Fraser  
chuckles warmly against his ear and sits up, slipping free of the suspender  
straps and reaching for the hem of the henley. Ray sits too, occupies  
himself with getting the rest of the way out of his clothes, deliberately  
not watching Fraser undress. He knows from experience how hard it is  
to undress in front of someone else, that weird, self-conscious feeling.  
Still, he peeks after Fraser gets his boots off and stands up to remove  
his weird-ass pants. And his ass is as far from weird as it gets. Perfect  
is more like it. Perfect ass, perfect back-- well, except for that scar,  
nasty one, looks like a bullet wound. Perfect shoulders and neck, and  
hair. . . just pretty much all around perfect.  
        After  
Fraser carefully places his clothes on top of Ray's dresser, he finally  
turns, and Ray's breath catches in his throat. Despite his resolve not  
to embarrass his partner, he just can't help but stare, because the front  
side is even more perfect than the back. He sees the blush start, and  
rise, and he ostentatiously closes his eyes tight and scoots back on  
the bed, making room, waiting. Feels the bed give, the warmth, no, the  
 _heat_ of Fraser's body next to his, even though they're not touching  
at all. It's like he's next to a furnace. Another shift, and he feels  
the heat over him, instead of next to him, knows Fraser is up on one  
arm, leaning over him, and he tips his head back a little, lips parted,  
hoping . . . .  
        "Ray."  
        His name is a breath,  
a sigh. Then Fraser's mouth is on his, first gently, but it goes hard,  
fast. The careful distance between them disappears as Fraser pulls him  
in so close it's almost hard to breathe, but ohgod it feels so good,  
all that hot, bare skin against his, and he needs more, needs to be closer  
yet. He hooks his calf over Fraser's thigh, and rocks against the smooth  
skin of Fraser's belly, moans as Fraser's hand slides down his back and  
cups his ass, his broad, warm palm pulling him in even closer. God,  
it's almost perfect. Almost. There's only one thing missing. Next  
time don't be in such an all-fired hurry, Kowalski. Don't make him come  
so fast.  
        He reaches  
back, finds Fraser's hand, and shifts it, just a little, so his fingers  
are . . . oh yeah. . . there. The touch is light, too light, tentative,  
but at least it's a touch, and he needs that, needs more. "Frase,  
please," he whispers against that drugging mouth. "More."  
        He feels Fraser tense  
a little, but his fingers move more firmly. Ray shifts his knee higher,  
to make it easier, but it's like Fraser's afraid to go there, to do that.  
He turns his head, panting a little. "It's okay, Frase, feels good,  
it's okay."  
        That  
gets him a fingertip, pressing gently. He moans, pushing back against  
it. Fraser's got big fingers, it's nice, real nice. He can't suppress  
a little flinch as the finger presses deeper; he's not used to doing  
this without the slick stuff; there's a lot more resistance this way.  
Fraser, of course, feels that, and yanks his hand away, which is exactly  
the wrong way to do it, and his little flinch turns into a wince and  
a gasp.  
        "I'm  
sorry, Ray," Fraser says softly, a hand soothing down his back.  
"I thought you wanted that."  
        Ray's  
getting a little frustrated. "Fraser, I do want that. I won't  
break, you know."  
        "I  
don't want to cause you any pain. I'm sorry, I don't know quite. . .  
how to do it right."  
        "You  
did it fine, we just need. . . " Ray twists, reaches, there, it's  
just at the edge of his grasp, he gets his fingers under the lip of the  
nightstand drawer and tugs it open. He reaches in, snags something sort  
of bottle-shaped and pulls it out. Oops. Wrong something. With a slightly  
embarrassed grin he drops the toy on the bed and goes fishing again,  
this time getting the right cylindrical object. . . the lubricant. "Here.  
This'll help." He puts it in Fraser's hand.  
        Fraser  
pulls his gaze away from the toy to look at the bottle in his hand, and  
nods, color washing across his face. He tries to unscrew the cap, and  
Ray reaches over and takes it to show him the flip-top, "Like this,  
gimme your hand." He upends the bottle, trailing a line of thick,  
clear fluid across Fraser's fingers. "There, see?"  
        Fraser  
nods, glancing distractedly to one side. Ray turns his head to see what  
he keeps looking at. . . oh, that. Yeah, that color is pretty damned  
distracting. He wonders if he should put it away, but then Fraser's  
shifting a little on the bed, and those fingers are right where he wants  
them, and the lube is cool and slick, soothing, and erotic as Fraser  
strokes him, making him shudder and buck in anticipation.  
        "Like  
this?" Fraser asks against his ear, tongue tracing the outer edge.  
        "Just like that,"  
Ray gasps as Fraser tries a finger again, and this time it slides right  
in, just so sweet and easy. "Oh Jesus, Fraser, just like that,  
yeah."  
        "It  
doesn't. . . hurt?" Fraser asks, sounding worried.  
        "God,  
no. I mean, not anymore. The first couple of . . . " Ray suddenly  
worries that Fraser might misunderstand and he tenses. "I mean,  
not with anybody, y'know, just with. . . " he nods toward the toy,  
and Fraser's gaze follows that motion. And his breathing catches, and  
his eyes get that dark, hazy look they had when Ray was sucking on him,  
and it hits Ray that Fraser didn't just find the toy and start to wonder  
if Ray might be into guys. He found it, _and got turned on_. "What'd  
you think when you found it?" Ray isn't sure why his voice is hoarse  
but it is.  
        Fraser  
closes his eyes. Opens them again. "You. What you looked like. What  
you ... tasted like." His tongue follows the word across his lips.  
        Ray's eyes widen, knowing  
what he knows about Benton Fraser. "Did you ... taste it?"  
Ray's voice is nothing more than a whisper now as his eyes follow the  
tongue.  
        Color flares  
across Fraser's face, but his eyes are still dilated, and his breathing  
uneven. He's excited. Slowly, he nods. "Yes."  
        And  
that's nearly enough to send Ray over the edge, but he wants. . . more.  
And then the thought of Fraser licking it. . . and, Jesus, he's probably  
used it since then, _knows_ he has, and Fraser licked it . . . .  
"Show me?" The words spill from his mouth, unplanned, and  
the moment they're said he wishes he could unsay them. He waits for  
Fraser to look at him in disgust, but. . . he doesn't. Instead he looks  
almost thoughtful as he gently eases his hand away from Ray's body.  
Ray bites his lip, missing the touch already, afraid that Fraser is going  
to leave.  
        He doesn't,  
though. Steadying himself with one hand, Fraser leans over and reaches  
past Ray's shoulder to grasp the toy, and then he straightens, holding  
it a little awkwardly. Ray watches Fraser's eyes close, his head incline,  
then his tongue is stealing out, licking from base to tip in a long,  
slow slide, like a kid with a really good ice-cream cone. Ray moans,  
feeling his body strain, trying hard to come, and only his own hand tightening  
hard around his cock keeps it back. He's not even sure how he manages  
not to come right then and there, but he doesn't.  
        And  
it gets worse as Fraser goes further, sucking the tip into his mouth,  
tongue stroking the underside. . . he has to close his eyes, can't watch  
any more. He swallows hard, trying to think of anything but that image  
that seems etched in his brain. This is crazy, he's usually got more  
self-control than this.  
        "Frase?"  
he asks huskily, not really sure what he's asking for.  
        A  
big, warm hand closes over his own, where it's wrapped around his cock,  
squeezes gently. "What do you like, Ray?"  
        "You.  
Everything. Anything." Those three words are all he can manage.  
He's beyond sentences.  
        He  
reaches out, twines his fingers in Ben's hair and hauls him down so their  
lips meet again, moaning into Ben's mouth as they kiss, hot, and wet,  
and fierce. And it is Ben, now, not Fraser. Part of him can't imagine  
kissing Fraser, having a naked Fraser hot and sweating in his bed, but  
Ben. . . yes, this is Ben. Elemental. Primal. Kissing Ben is different  
from any other kiss he's ever had, the strength of it, neither of them  
holding back, is raw, and powerful.  
        He  
loses himself in sensation, their hands on his cock, their mouths, tongues,  
a battle they can both win. He feels Ben settle onto the bed beside  
him and hooks a calf over his thigh, pulling him in close. One of Ben's  
hands skims along his back, settling. . . ohyeah, there, right there.  
A single finger returns to circle, press, enter. He shudders and pulls  
his mouth away, licking at the closest ear, feeling Ben shiver with the  
sensation before making his request. "More, Ben."  
        Ben  
shivers again, and more is given, two fingers stroking into him, easy.  
Feels so damned good, and his hips are moving in an ancient rhythm as  
sensation suffuses him-- hand on his cock, fingers in his ass, he can't  
decide which feels better. But it's not quite right yet, not quite there  
. . . he's used to more. Panting, he nips at Ben's earlobe again. "More."  
he breathes. Feels the hesitation this time. Pushes. "More, Ben,  
I need it."  
        For  
a moment he thinks he pushed too hard, because Ben's fingers are sliding  
out of him, and he protests the abandonment only to have Ben hush his  
complaint with his mouth as sensation returns and . . . ohgod. . . that's  
not . . . not fingers. Nor is it Ben. His body starts to yield to the  
familiar intrusion and he moans, a long, loud, embarrassingly needy moan.  
At that Ben hesitates again, and he slaps a hand over Ben's, twisting  
his head to free his mouth.  
        "Don't  
stop!" he gasps, knowing Ben needs words, won't understand less.  
"Do it!"  
        Ah,  
thank God Ben's into obeying orders, because if Ray can't have Ben in  
him right now, then this is the next best thing, and he can't believe  
this is happening but it is and he can't believe Ben thought of this  
but he did and it's unbelievably, wildly arousing, and if it wasn't for  
the inevitable wilt that happens with initial penetration he'd be coming  
buckets right now. He turns his head, finds Ben's mouth again, and kisses  
him wildly. Ben kisses back, just as wild as Ray needs him to. He  
rocks into Ben's hand on his cock and Ben picks up the rhythm there,  
and elsewhere, damn, so good, so good.  
        Shaking,  
he tries to brace himself with a hand on Ben's waist, but it slides on  
sweaty skin, and stutters across Ben's groin and under his hand he feels  
the stirring of a firming erection. Instinct closes his fingers around  
Ben's half-hard cock, he strokes, feeling the unfamiliar slide of his  
foreskin. He curls a finger upward, touching the slick, satiny tip,  
and Ben makes a sound against his mouth, a deep, soft sound that's half  
groan and half grunt, hardening rapidly now in Ray's hand. Oh yeah,  
yeah, this is it, perfect, yeah. Maybe he will get his fantasy fulfilled  
after all. After a few more strokes he's sure of it, Ben's hard, and  
thrusting into his hand, and Ray can't wait any longer, because if he  
waits any longer he'll be gone. He reaches back, catches Ben's wrist  
in his hand.  
        "Ben,  
you now," he whispers against Ben's ear.  
        That  
earns him a flat out moan, and Ben leans his head into Ray's shoulder,  
shaking like he's freezing and Ray's a fire. "Ray. . . you're.  
. . you're sure?"  
        "Yeah,  
Ben, yeah, I'm sure." He pulls back on Ben's wrist, easing the  
toy free, and discards it in favor of something far better. "Now."  
        "How. . .?"  
        He rolls, gropes in the  
drawer, finds the rubbers and opens one, sliding the contents free as  
he grabs the still-open lube and coats his fingers, then Ben's cock before  
sliding the thin sheath over him and slicking the outside with a little  
lube, too. Okay, now. . . Jesus, can't do it his usual way, that's not  
going to work right. He thinks for a minute, grabs a pillow, and leans  
in for a quick, hot kiss before rolling onto his stomach, the pillow  
under his hips. Ben's smart, scary-smart, he can figure this out. .  
. .  
        From the harshly  
indrawn breath, he has. A hand skims down his back, settles over his  
ass. "Ray?"  
        "Now,  
Ben. Just like before. Except. . . you this time."  
        Fingers  
on him, sliding in, easy, he's relaxed, he's turned on, and he can't  
resist a buck into the pillow. Stroke, again, again, then gone, and  
broad, blunt tip, hot, living heat, he can't even tell there's that layer  
of latex between them, it just feels like. . . Ben. That hits him rocks  
him, this isn't a fantasy, it's real . . . steady, gentle forging inward.  
He's breached, occupied, taken. He moans, and Ben stops.  
        "Ray?"  
Uncertain voice, worry.  
        "Good,"  
he gasps, reassuring, encouraging. "Jesus, so. . . good. Please,  
Ben . . . need you."  
        Lips  
against his neck, his shoulder, a hand soothing his hip as Ben continues,  
deeper, finally. . . there. . . he can feel their bodies locked, flush,  
together, and it's so good, so much better than he imagined, so much  
 _more_ than he imagined. He can feel trembling in the big body  
over his, realizes Ben's waiting for him, waiting for a sign that it's  
okay, that he can move. Vaguely remembering a suggestion from his book,  
he manages to push up and back, so he's on hands and knees, taking Ben's  
weight on his back.  
        Ben  
clutches at him like he's afraid of falling, and shifts, on his knees  
now, hands on Ray's hips. He makes a sound, an exhalation, startled,  
hoarse, then a word, a single syllable. " _Ray!_ " It's  
a sound full of wonder. Ben moves, finally, a slow pull back, equally  
slow thrust. "Oh, Ray." Hoarse, almost broken, and as needy  
as Ray feels.  
        His  
name said over and over, a familiar chant, yet never said like this before,  
almost moaned, in time to the drugging pleasure of motion within him,  
over him, around him. One broad hand slides down from his hip, curves  
around his cock, strokes him once, twice, and that's all he can stand,  
everything is too intense, too damned perfect, and he's coming so hard  
he thinks it might just kill him, but it's a hell of a way to die. Teeth  
on his shoulder sting just enough to add a grace-note, and the sobbing  
growl Ben makes as he shudders to a halt sends a final shiver echoing  
through him.  
        He's  
shaking, all over, and his knees won't hold, and he slides down into  
a heap on the bed, covered by an equally limp Fraser. It's a little  
hard to breathe with all that weight on him, and he's lying in the world's  
biggest wet spot, but he doesn't care about either at the moment. All  
that matters is that he's here, and Ben's here, and they're. . . together.  
Finally. And it's good. It's better than good. It's greatness.  
        He just lies there, quietly,  
enjoying the feel of Ben on him, the strange sensation of softening cock  
in him, slowly slipping out, feels nothing like the toy, it's a lot easier,  
weirdly. . . sweet. Because he did that. He made Ben come, made him  
collapse like he'd been sucker-punched. Maybe he has. That's kind of  
how Ray feels. Like he's a 'toon and someone clobbered him over the  
head . . . or maybe some little naked fat kid with wings shot him with  
an arrow, and now he's got hearts and roses swimming in a circle around  
his head. Oooh Stanley Raymond Kowalski, don't go there. Do not go  
there. You know better. Sex is one thing. Just because you're a sappy  
romantic freak doesn't mean Fraser is. It dawns on Ray suddenly that  
this is the longest Fraser's ever been quiet since the moment they met,  
and suddenly he starts to get a little worried that he's passed out or  
something. He reaches over to touch Fraser's hand where it's lying near  
his on the bed, and when he does, Ben catches his hand in his in a strong,  
firm grip, and squeezes lightly.  
        "Ray."  
        It's just his name.  
Nothing special. But. . . special. Different. A kind of dark richness,  
like it's been dipped in chocolate or something. He starts to relax  
a little until Ben doesn't say anything else. And he worries again,  
and wishes he could see Ben's face, but he can't, and the quiet is killing  
him, so. . . "Um, you want me to get a washcloth or something?"  
he asks, because he has no idea what to say now.  
        Ben  
squeezes his hand again, he feels lips against the back of his neck.  
"Shhh. No. Let me . . . hold you?"  
        All  
the building tension melts out of him like butter in a microwave. Oh,  
yeah. He can do that. He can so do that. He sighs and closes his eyes,  
nodding.

* * *  


  
        Beyond his wildest dreams.  
Fraser has never been quite sure what that phrase meant, until now.  
Now he knows, because even in the most heated of his fantasies he'd never  
imagined it would be like this. So intense. So unfettered. So. . .  
perfect. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. Certainly  
not his disastrous liaison with Victoria. And not Mark, or Eric either.  
        He'd had a schoolboy  
crush on Mark, but as adults they had never gotten past the sexual tension  
stage-- there were just too many barriers between them by that point.  
With Eric there had been a certain amount of adolescent 'fooling around,'  
as Ray would no doubt put it, no more than kissing, and touching, and  
when they'd come together as adults it had remained at that level, neither  
of them willing to take it further. This, with Ray, was so extraordinary--  
Ray had gifted him with such total surrender, and complete trust.  
        And it was trust that  
was the most important, and strangely erotic, aspect of what had just  
happened. His most recent experiences with desire had been utterly without  
trust, and the consequences had led him to bury his own need as deeply  
as humanly possible. Yet, somehow, Ray has found it, buried as it was,  
as unerringly as if he had a map. He draws in a deep breath, lets it  
out slowly, and Ray's grip on his hand tightens reassuringly.  
        "You okay?"  
Ray asks quietly.  
        "Oh,  
yes, Ray."  
        "You  
sure?"  
        "Very  
sure."  
        "Okay.  
Cause you're like. . . kinda quiet."  
        "Is  
that a problem?"  
        "Um,  
no. Not a problem. Just not used to it."  
        It  
strikes Fraser that Ray sounds a little strained, and instantly he starts  
to worry. "Ray, are you all right?"  
        Ray  
laughs a little. "I am way past all right, Ben. . . I, uh, I mean  
Frase. . . um. . ."  
        "No,  
Ray," Ben interrupts. "I like 'Ben.'"  
        "You  
do?"  
        "Yes.  
No one here calls me that. I would like for you to."  
        "Cool.  
Ben it is, then." He's quiet for a moment, then he speaks again.  
"Um, I'm not really complaining, but, well, you're a little . .  
. heavy."  
        For  
a moment Ben doesn't understand, then it hits him. He's rather solidly  
built, and doubtless Ray is having a little difficulty breathing. No  
wonder he sounds strained. "Oh, good lord Ray! I'm sorry!"  
He doesn't want to let go. Not yet. He still wants to hold him, doesn't  
want to deal with the regrettably awkward details of sex just yet. But  
there's one he's going to have to take care of before it becomes problematic.  
He slips a hand down and holds the condom in place as he eases free.  
        Ray murmurs a soft  
protest, which despite Ben's embarrassment brings a foolish smile to  
his lips, since it seems to indicate that Ray likes having him there.  
Snagging a tissue from the box on the nightstand, he discards the condom.  
Then, finally, he rolls onto his side, taking Ray with him. Ray shivers  
a little as air touches the film of sweat and semen on his stomach and  
chest, and Ben wraps himself around Ray more tightly, pulling at the  
disordered bedding with one hand until they're protecting whatever skin  
Ben can't cover himself. Ray's hands come up to cover his own, and he  
sighs.  
        "Nice."  
        Ben nods against the  
back of his neck, unspeaking. He just can't quite find the words to  
express how he's feeling right now, although 'nice' is definitely one  
of them.  
        Ray laughs  
softly. "Finally figured out how to keep you quiet."  
        Ben  
forgets himself enough to nip the back of Ray's neck in warning, which  
also draws a laugh.  
        "You  
got more in common with Dief than you like to let on, don't you? Don't  
worry. I won't use it against you at work or anything. . ."  
        Ray's voice trails off,  
and a sudden tension in his body betrays him before he even speaks again.  
        "Oh, geez.  
Work. Oh man, I am in so much trouble."  
        "Why?"  
        "Um, well, there's  
rules, you know, about partners not fu. . . uh, scr. . . um . . ."  
        "About not  
having a physical relationship?" Fraser offers, realizing that Ray  
is having trouble coming up with a verb that won't offend him.  
        "Yeah,  
that." Ray sounds relieved. "Not supposed to. The boys upstairs  
don't like that. And that's just with guys and chicks. They'd really  
flip out at guys and guys."  
        "Then  
I suppose we are fortunate in that I am not your partner," Ben says  
carefully.  
        Ray turns  
his head sharply, trying to look at Ben, but the angle is too acute.  
He squirms a little until Ben lets him go finally, and he turns immediately,  
pushing Ben over onto his back and half-covering him with one arm and  
thigh. "You're my partner." Ray says, looking at him searchingly,  
a hint of distress in his eyes, the golden flecks in his blue irises  
seeming to blaze.  
        Suddenly  
realizing that Ray misunderstood him, Ben quickly corrects himself. "Yes,  
of course I am, Ray, but not officially. As I am not a member of the  
Chicago Police Department any regulations which might apply to official  
partners don't hold any force. That should absolve you of any legal  
difficulty, I believe."  
        "Oh.  
Okay." Ray relaxes, sighs. "Don't scare me like that."  
        "I didn't mean to,"  
Ben says, contritely.  
        "I  
know. I got that."  
        Ben  
looks at Ray, and a worry crosses his mind. "Ray, are you all right  
with . . . this? With, as you put it, 'guys and guys?'"  
        Ray  
gives him what he's come to think of as the 'You're Unhinged' look.  
        "Well, duh, Ben.  
Like, I'd be here if I wasn't?"  
        "I  
wasn't sure. . . you've never evinced any interest in, ah. . . "  
Ben falters, not quite sure how he should put it.  
        "Making  
it with guys?" Ray asks, grinning, his turn to supply needed words.  
"Yeah. I know. Never even thought about it until you. Well, okay,  
I thought about it, but never thought of doing anything about it. Then  
you came along and all the sudden I couldn't think of anything _but_  
doing something about it. And, damn it, you kept. . . being there, in  
my space, making comments, doing stuff-- but I thought you were straight  
as an arrow. . . . It's not like you 'evinced interest' either, there,  
Benton-buddy."  
        "No,  
you're quite right. I suppose we were both laboring under the same misapprehension.  
And there is a certain stigma, especially in our profession . . . ."  
        "You got that right,"  
Ray says, sighing. "Cops're kind of like soldiers. Not supposed  
to do the. . . physical relationship thing. That goes way back forever,  
I guess."  
        "Actually,  
no, it doesn't."  
        Ray  
looks at him, curious. "No?"  
        "No.  
In fact, in ancient Sparta, a city-state renowned for the skill and valor  
of its warriors, their elite soldiers were actively encouraged to form  
such relationships with their fellows. It was felt that it enhanced  
the partnership bond, and made the soldiers fight more fiercely on the  
battlefield to protect their . . . lovers."  
        "Really?"  
        "Yes."  
        Ray thinks about that  
for a moment, then grins. "Cool. I can see that. I mean, I'd  
fight . . . for you."  
        Fraser  
remembers that moment on the docks when Ray deliberately came between  
him and a bullet. And there had been no guarantee that Ms. Garbo would  
aim for his torso, the head had been as likely a shot, and utterly unprotected.  
A shudder goes through him and he pulls Ray to him, holding him hard.  
"I wish you wouldn't. I would. . . not want to lose you."  
he confesses.  
         "Like  
I don't feel the same?" Ray says, looking frustrated. "You  
make me nuts! You walk up to some guy who's got a gun, because you're  
pretty sure it's empty?"  
        They've  
had this discussion before. "I counted the rounds," Ben says  
defensively.  
        "Yeah,  
but what if you miscounted? Hunh?"  
        "But  
I didn't," Ben points out reasonably. "And you were counting,  
too."  
        "I  
counted, and I was wrong. You could've been wrong. And then on top  
of that you get him to throw his knife at you, so you can pull some kind  
of Xena stunt and _catch_ it? Jesus, what if you'd missed?"  
        "I didn't miss."  
        "I know that! I  
was there, you know." Ray looks and sounds quite exasperated. "I  
was the one threatening to beat him to death with an empty gun, remember?  
That's not the point. The point is that you risk yourself all the time.  
And I gotta put up with it, because that's what you do, that's your job.  
And I got the same job so you have to put up with me just like I have  
to put up with you, even though you do way crazier stuff than I do, and  
damn it, if I want to fight for you, I will. Got it?"  
        Fraser  
opens his mouth, then closes it again, knowing better than to argue with  
Ray when he's in this mood. He nods, because there is no other answer.  
Ray is right. He has little say in it, after all. One cannot dictate  
another's actions, no matter how much one might desire to. Ray looks  
at him for a long moment and slowly starts to smile.  
        "Y'know,  
I like this. I gotta get you in bed more often. You're a lot mellower  
after sex."  
        Ben  
eyes him skeptically. "I'm generally quite 'mellow,'" he says  
guardedly.  
        Ray makes  
a rude noise. "Oh yeah. Mellow. That's what you call that quiet,  
stubborn, gonna-get-your-way-no-matter-what Mountie thing you do? I  
gotta remember that." Ray's grin takes the sting out of the words.  
"But I do like you this way. You're . . . different."  
        "In what way?"  
        "Well, first off,  
you're naked," Ray says with a wink. "What's not to like about  
that? But no, you're. . . relaxed. You don't usually do that. You're.  
. . turned off. Like all the little things you do, all the barriers  
you keep up most of the time, are gone. It's like I'm finally seeing  
who you really are."  
        Ben  
can't help but tense as Ray speaks, even though he tries not to. Sometimes  
Ray is disturbingly perceptive, and he has a tendency to forget that  
until moments like this. Yes, he has let his guard down, in a way that  
hasn't happened in a very long time, and he's suddenly feeling vulnerable  
and far too exposed. Ray's eyebrows draw down suddenly, and he reaches  
out, grabbing Ben's chin in his fingers, holding him still, gazing into  
his eyes as he slowly shakes his head.  
        "No.  
Don't, Ben. Don't push me out again. We only just found in."  
        He struggles against  
a lifetime's hard-learned lessons, the ones which fostered the instincts  
which tell him to close off, to pull in, to hide. It feels as if gravity  
has suddenly increased, pinning him down, making it hard to breathe.  
Somehow he lifts a hand, touches fingertips to the stubbled line of Ray's  
angular jaw, closes his eyes, swallows.  
        "Yes.  
We have. I won't. I'll try not to. It's just. . . hard. It's what  
I've learned."  
        Ray  
nods. Ben can't see it, but he can feel the movement with his fingers.  
        "Okay. I get  
that. I do. Trying's good." Ray shifts, and suddenly there are  
lips on his again, startling him, surprisingly soft, and warm. "Stay  
tonight?" he asks when he lifts up again, his voice husky, inviting.  
        For some reason that  
makes tears sting Ben's eyes, and he's glad his eyes are closed. He  
nods, not trusting his voice. Ray makes a pleased sound, and settles  
in against him, his head on Ben's shoulder, arm and thigh flung casually  
across him once more, anchoring him, proving the reality.  
        "Good.  
Good. Stay tonight."  
        Ray  
brushes his lips against the skin of Ben's shoulder, mutters something  
Ben can't quite make out that sounds a bit like 'fever', which makes  
no sense, but then, Ray doesn't always, and he seems to be dozing off.  
Ben is feeling surprisingly sleepy himself. He lets his hand slide down  
to Ray's shoulder, curves over the smooth curve of biceps, and his finger  
traces the blue-green weal of his tattoo. Ray sighs, and squeezes him  
a little.  
        "G'night,  
Ben."  
        "Good  
night, Ray."  
        Yes,  
it is. Very much so.

  
_* * * Finis * * *_   


* * *

Feedback to: Kellie


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